The Curιous Case oƒ Elizabeth Hastings
by F 0 R E V E R M 0 R E
Summary: Sherlock has never met an enigma he can't solve; but he can truthfully say that he wasn't expecting for someone like her to be the one to finally render him bewildered. Eventual Sherlock/OC, some Johnlock (slight slash).
1. Not a Part of the Schedule

**The Curιous Case oƒ Elizabeth Hastings **  
A Sherlock (TV) Fanfiction

_The Curious Case of Elizabeth Hastings_ _© F0REVERMORE  
Sherlock __© BBC & Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

* * *

**Chapter One:**  
_**Not a Part of the Schedule**_

His eyes open at 5am sharp. For the past six years, he has kept a strict schedule and now no longer needs the uses of the frivolous item that is called an alarm clock.

With a soft sigh, he sits up and pushes aside the bed covers (all while making sure not to move too much). Sliding his legs over the edge he takes a moment to fully wake before standing: one deep breath in, one long breath out. For the first fifteen minutes of his "personal" time he does a light work-out of push-ups and sit-ups at the end of the bed. Afterward, he quickly changes into loose fitting sweats and a sweatshirt so that he can go out for his morning jog. However, before he can even think of leaving the apartment, he briskly jogs over to the opposite side of the bed—collecting a pair of discarded slippers along the way—and neatly places them in just the right position.

Nodding to himself, he heads out into the kitchen and turns on the lights, espresso machine and stove-top.

She can't have a simple cup of coffee, it has to be an espresso with light whipped cream and a dash of cinnamon mixed in. It's the only thing that can "make her brain work" in the morning and for the rest of the day.

Normally, any other husband would comment about the wife being the one who does the cooking and cleaning, but they don't have Elizabeth as a wife. Besides, sue him since he actually likes their apartment to remain in tact and smoke free, and if he ever left the cleaning up to her, he would come home to piles of discarded books, crafts and random newspaper clippings with scribbles that only she can understand.

Swiftly, he cooks a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs whites (cooked with butter an not oil) and two slices of buttered toast. Neatly placing the food on a white plate, he sets up the island centered in the kitchen: the plate in the middle, the utensils at the left and the whipped cream can and cinnamon shaker on the right. After making sure that the espresso machine is ready for use with a simple push of a button, he nods in reassurance to himself that he hasn't missed a step. Just in case, however, he mentally goes through the morning checklist because he hates it when he comes back from his jog to a see dissatisfied Elizabeth just sitting on the stool, unmoving. If he missed even a single step, she won't budge until it gets done. Her brain can't process it (change). One time he made the mistake of forgetting to place her slippers by the bedside, and when he came home and didn't see her at the kitchen island- he got worried. He ran to the room, only to then discover that she was still in bed, sitting at the edge and staring at the floor where her slippers should had been.

Nope, he hasn't missed a step.

Elizabeth may possibly be the most complicated woman in the world, but he loves her and wouldn't have her in any other way.

After lacing up his shoes, he plugs in the headphones of his iPod in his ears to drown out the morning calls of New York City. He pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, presses the shuffle button, and then heads out. Jogging to the bottom of the apartment building's stone steps, he stretches out his limbs before taking a left on his usual morning route.

Thirty minutes of peace. Absolute solitude. Alone time. The time he can use to collect his thoughts and set his mind straight for the day.

Don't get him wrong, he loves his life and wouldn't change a thing, but he isn't ashamed to admit that he is eager to get up in the morning (not matter how ridiculously early) to have some time for himself. Everybody needs some personal time to reflect on just themselves every once in awhile.

At six-oh-five, he heads up to his apartment on the third floor, number 3-1-5, but as he nears the chipping mahogany door, his eyes catch sight of an item that is greatly off his usual morning schedule. Taped to the door over the peep-hole is a small, torn piece of notebook paper. Plucking the note from his door, his eyes scan over the familiar handwriting and his fingers clench, crinkling the edges of the paper.

_I need her help._

_The Royal Diner, 9th Street. 9:00 P.M._

—_SH_

"Well, shit," he curses under his breath. He hasn't heard from Sherlock Holmes in years, and it isn't everyday that a man like him asks for help; he's too prideful. _He must really be desperate,_ he wonders.

Fluidly sliding in his house key, he opens the door and calls for his wife. "Elizabeth?" He clears his throat once he hears that he squeaked her name a little, nervous.

He doesn't want Holmes anywhere near his wife. Not without him there to watch over her at least.

His mind is racing: _Did he knock? Did Elizabeth answer? Don't be stupid, she never answers the door._ He panics more, memories of Holmes' "method" of working on a case coming back to him all at once. His eyes sweep the living room. _Oh, fuck, did he pick the lock? Then why would he leave the no- _The apartment is Sherlock Holmes free, and Elizabeth is quietly eating her breakfast and sipping her espresso. He exhales a sigh of relief.

He folds the note and stuffs it into the pocket of his sweatshirt, hoping that Elizabeth doesn't notice. "Morning, Lizzie," he greets, brushing back her blonde hair and kissing the top her head. She smiles up at him in response, but he notices that an item of great value is missing. He frowns, shaking his head. _'Where is your hearing-aid?' _he signs with his hands.

She points her thumb over her shoulder, towards the kitchen counter.

_'Did you forget to plug it in before bed again?'_ he asks, exasperated.

She shrugs, unashamed and uncaring, and turns back to her food. He sighs. It isn't exactly new knowledge that she hates wearing her hearing-aid. She says it makes the back of her ear tender. And even if it is charged and ready for use, she still prefers not to have it on and sometimes takes it off and shoves it in random places; they've been through seven hearing-aids this past year because she forgets all about taking it off and her clothes go through the wash or she forgets where she put them. So he drops the subject, thankful that her current hearing-aid has lasted longer than three months, and heads to their room to take a much needed shower.

He decides that he cannot ignore the note from Holmes or else the man will show up on his door stoop unannounced and uninvited, and then how will he hide Elizabeth from him and his observant, criticizing eyes?

* * *

**(A/N) Author's Note:** I've learned the hard way never to share personal information (email and password) with a "friend". It took me awhile but I finally recovered all the files I have for this fanfic and am reposting it. I apologize for any confusion.

Will take place after "The Reichenbach Fall". Sorry that this is so short, the next chapter will be a lot longer.

And while I have your attention, why don't you check out my tumblr page which will have some gif sets and edits pertaining to this story (when I feel like making some), the link is on my page. Also, check out my community which is dedicated to stories that I think are underappreciated (review wise), and if you have a story or suggestions that you would like for me to add to it, send me a PM. That is all :)


	2. From One Fraud to Another

**The Curιous Case oƒ Elizabeth Hastings **  
A Sherlock (TV) Fanfiction

_The Curious Case of Elizabeth Hastings_ _© F0REVERMORE  
Sherlock __© BBC & Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

* * *

**Chapter Two:**  
_**From One "Fraud" to Another**_

It is like an explosion erupts in his chest; his limbs burst with raw energy, adrenaline. He gasps awake, body jerking upright. Eyes parting open, a hazy sea of colors rush at him all at once, forcing them immediately close.

_Focus_.

His awareness is dim...faint... His thoughts are fractured, scattered...

_Focus_.

Images form behind his closed lids, fuzzy. Memories.

_Focus_.

Opening his eyes once more, all is clear: Moriarty. Dead. John. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. Gunmen. Orders. Shoot. Jump.

One word sticks out, however.

_Fraud_.

"Sh-Sherlock?" the soft quivering voice of a frightened female registers in Sherlock's brain. Molly. "Are-are you all right?"

His chin falls down to his chest, gaze landing on the thick syringe sticking out from his thoracic cavity. He yanks it out with one swift movement, ignoring the slight uncomfortable sensation of the needle sliding out of his flesh. Turning his head towards the wide-eyed pathologist, he questions abruptly, "How long?"

She licks her lips, flattening down the invisible wrinkles from her white lab coat. "Three days, just like you said," she answers, somewhat regaining her composure.

Sherlock shifts to move, but he grits his teeth. His entire body is tingling with high sensitivity. He curls his hands into fists in an effort to transfer his brain's attention from the prickling of a thousand needles in his other limbs. His action offers brief comfort.

Sherlock clumsily slides off of the autopsy table, but his legs give out from underneath him. Toppling forward, Molly is quick to wrap her arms around his upper-body to hold him upright, and he tries not to lean too much into her. She guides him over to an office chair and he heavily plops down on it, lazily draping the white medical sheet over his lap to cover himself.

Flexing his fingers out and in, he asks, "What time is it?"

"3:30," Molly replies. He waits for her to finish, but when she doesn't continue he raises an expectant brow. "Oh," she fumbles, "AM." He nods.

"Did you acquire what I asked for?"

Molly nods and scurries away. She returns to Sherlock with a large black duffel bag, but he notices that her knuckles are white as she clutches the straps with a vise grip. And judging by the way she is gnawing at her bottom lip and shifting her eyes side to side, Sherlock can tell that she is either bordering on paranoia or is trying to be modest for he is half naked.

Sherlock breathes in and mumbles lowly while looking towards the newly waxed tiled floor of the morgue, "Thank you."

When his gaze flickers back up towards the mousy-haired female, she replies in a jittery tone, "Wh-where will you go?" She is worried about him.

"You know I can't divulge that information to you," he responds. "I'm sure despite my death, investigators will be checking in on all of my known associates. You included."

Molly nods, smiling weakly. "I know that. I just... If you need a place to stay, I can clean up my spare room–"

"That would be unwise," Sherlock advises. "I've already made arrangements, and you have...helped me enough already," he struggles to say. Showing his gratitude is difficult for him to express, especially when it comes to using words.

Sherlock holds out his hand. "May I?"

Molly gives him the duffel bag with one jerky movement. A forced close-lipped smile awkwardly stretches across her face, to which Sherlock offers one of his own.

"I'll, um, give you some privacy," Molly mumbles, clearing her throat.

Sherlock sets the bag on his lap and opens it to check its contents just in case Molly may have missed anything, it is vital that he have everything he asked for. Everything. He doesn't know how long he will be gone; it can take years to find evidence that will clear his name.

He changes into the clothes he had her buy for him but feels that something is missing. Nope, something_s_ are missing. His neck is bare and it feels like he's naked, the draft causes for him to rub the back of his neck; and the frigid temperature mandatory for a morgue penetrates the thin fabric of the long-sleeved shirt.

"Sherlock," Molly calls, timidly. Sherlock refrains from rolling his eyes and turns around to face her; Molly really needs to gain more confidence. "I thought you might want to take these with you," she adds without looking up to meet his gaze. "I tried to clean them but there is still some bl...blood on the scarf."

Sherlock's shoulders lax at the sight of Molly extending to him his coat and scarf. He takes the articles of clothing and fluidly slides his arms through the sleeves of his coat (and he practically moans at the familiarity), but when it comes to putting on his scarf- his finger tips roam over the splotches of blood evident on the dark blue material. He can't put this on. Huffing, he aggressively bunches it up into a ball and roughly stuffs it into his pocket.

Noticing that Molly is watching his little tantrum, Sherlock puts his hands into his pockets. They stand in silence. Sherlock doesn't know the "protocol" for this type of situation. What does one say to another when they're leaving for a long period of time?

Sherlock shuffles on his feet. "I should be leaving," he announces.

"Right, of course." Molly nods.

Sherlock picks up the duffel bag from the office chair. His plan is to just leave without saying good-bye—because what need is there for one?—but he is taken by surprise when Molly grabs his face and presses her lips firmly against his. He goes stiff, eyes wide. The feel is foreign, her lips are soft and moist, the touch is gentle and he can feel the light tremble of her mouth as she tries to hold back a whimper. When she pulls back, he stares down at her with his brows furrowed.

"Molly–" He is about to tell her how her feelings are wasted on him, but she places her hand on his chest.

"I know," she cuts him off, eyes brimming with tears. "I just wanted to do that at least once."

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, monotone.

"It's okay." She smiles weakly. "I am going to miss you, Sherlock."

He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't. He leaves St. Bartholomew's Hospital and a tearful Molly behind. He doesn't take a cab, he walks and makes sure to stay in the shadows, taking routes that most residents of London don't know exist. His original destination is the docks, where he has arranged for a boat to take him to a disclosed location, but he can't help himself. He finds himself standing across the street of 221B Baker Street, saying silent good-byes to the only people he can honestly say he cares about.

_I'll be back_, he promises.

******[One Year Later]**

NOTHING, NOTHING, NOTHING! Absolutely nothing! Screaming, Sherlock—or should he say John Warren?—clears off his desk with one clean sweep of his arms.

One year. One year of endless searching and sleepless nights (which isn't really unusual), and he has nothing. Not a shred of evidence that shows Moriarty framed him with the threat of killing off Sherlock's closest friends if he didn't commit suicide.

Running his hand through his freshly dyed blonde locks, he slams his palms onto the desk's surface and sighs heavily. He doesn't know how much longer he can take this. Sherlock doesn't consider himself a weak man, but living this life that is the farthest thing that is him is slowly driving him mad. He tightly curls his hands into fists till his knuckles turn white.

Storming out to the front door, Sherlock yanks a cheaply made brown leather coat from the coat rack and heads out his apartment. In reality, he wants to wear his old coat but can't while he's in disguise.

Jonathan Warren (J.W. in-memoriam of his dearest friend John Watson) lives a rather simple and utterly dull life as a cab driver in New York City, America. He was born in a small town in Connecticut, he is the middle child of two other siblings, Micheal and Veronica, and his parents are both retired and living peacefully in a home.

Turns out, it isn't all that hard to fake an American accent (and life) for Sherlock. You can buy anything in the States for the right price.

Strolling down the sidewalk to clear his head, the familiar sound of a siren wailing makes him go erect. A patrol car zooms by, barreling down the street erratically. Curiosity gets the best out of him and Sherlock finds himself at the scene of a crime. Yellow tape and barricades have already been set up around a section of Central Park. Sherlock stands in the background with a few other "curious" citizens.

A body is slump on a bench in a seating position, but Sherlock knows that the woman has been dead for a few hours (as his keen eyes tell him).

He is itching to get a closer look and inspect the body; he bounces on the balls of his feet, anxious. He should really leave and never look back. Maybe even run? Sherlock stops bouncing when he notices a pair of blue-eyes gazing at him with a quizzical expression on their face.

"All right, what do you have for me?"

Sherlock knows that voice. Peter Hastings, NYPD detective.

Before John, before Moriarty, Sherlock went to vast lengths in order to cure his boredom, and that included taking cases across the seas. And New York is replete with crime, more-so than any other city in America that he prefers. He will sooner have a family dinner with Mycroft than go to the city of Los Angeles. Peter Hastings was the only detective that ever wanted to give Sherlock a chance, though he was a rookie detective at the time, and even when Sherlock proved his intelligence and success rate of solving cases no one but Peter would be bothered with him. It's been years since Sherlock has contacted Peter, there wasn't a need. But now...

_Can he? _Sherlock wonders. He narrows his eyes, watching as Peter leans in close to the corpse. He has changed from the rookie cop he once knew almost a decade ago; instead of the slightly over-sized suits and loose tie and unkempt hair, he has visibly matured and the suits are tailored to his frame, the tie is snug, and his hair is neatly gelled back. _Dolce and Gabbana. How can a __NYPD__ detective afford Dolce and Gabbana?_

******[·]**

Sherlock has littered his desk's surface with new information not dealing with Moriarty but with Peter Hastings. Apparently he has made head detective of the NYPD and has the top closing rate in the departments history, which Sherlock finds odd. He remembers Peter as a bright and sharp man, surely, but he doesn't remember him being _that_ good. Not head detective good.

In fact, Sherlock notices a pattern. Peter hasn't been able to close a case on his own until six years ago when he solved his first case...and then all the others after it. That isn't possible. For Sherlock it is – he's brilliant and has been solving cases since his youth. But a normal person?

Delving into Peter's first case, which isn't so hard to find—the NYPD database is surprisingly—not really—easier to hack into than the Yards—because he used Peter's access information. Sherlock's logical mind is bombarded with the "supernatural": kidnappings of young women whom were later found murdered exactly a week after they went missing, pictures of the crime scene and bodies with strange "satanic like" markings carved into their skin, blood leaking from the eyes, ears and nose, and the same death blow of a stab wound straight through the sternum. All of them virgins. But the last young woman who went missing was found alive but was so mentally traumatized that she had to be hospitalized and wasn't a credible witness. It was six months into the investigation when a man named Henry Geller came forth and confessed to the kidnappings and murders; he was arrested, but Peter voiced how he didn't think that he actually did it. Naturally the department didn't believe him since the kidnappings had stopped after Henry confessed and now he is currently awaiting death row in Sing Sing. The case was closed and since Peter was the lead detective in the case he received all the credit despite the fact he still thinks that Henry didn't do it.

"Elizabeth Lorraine Morgan," Sherlock reads out loud the name of the survivor. His eyes fall upon the photo of Elizabeth Morgan and he is taken by surprise.

It's her; the woman from Central Park; the pair of blue-eyes watching him when he bounced.

In the photo taken by the police when she was found, her blonde hair is a knotted mess, her eyes are glazed, and her face is hardly visible from behind the matted locks and dirt and grime smeared across her flesh. Sherlock thinks back to the woman he saw in the park and she is nothing like in the picture: her hair was combed and shinny, she has gained a considerable amount of weight and looks more healthy, and she, to him, appeared to be completely calm and collected.

Sherlock can't scramble fast enough to his laptop. How is a woman who supposedly was so "mentally deranged" that she had to be _hospitalized_ is walking around Central Park all by herself? At a crime scene no less.

The loud, obnoxious ring of the telephone feels like a blow to Sherlock's brain. He tries to ignore it, but unlike a cellphone (which he doesn't have for security purposes) there isn't a straight to voice-mail option. It just keeps ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing. Hollering out, Sherlock stomps over to the wall phone in the kitchen and answers it.

"What?" he snaps, irritably.

"Don't you 'what' me!" the gruff voice of "John's" boss, Carlos, barks. "Your shift started half an hour ago, where the hell are you?"

"I quit," Sherlock responds, calmly. He slams the phone back onto the hook. Not exactly practical, but it suffices. He is finally on a roll and doesn't want to be bothered with the frivolous thing that is called a "job".

Sherlock makes his way back to his desk and fluidly sits in front of the computer with purpose. The NYPD database has completed its search for Elizabeth Morgan, but Sherlock's eyes are drawn to the correction in her name. "Elizabeth Lorraine _Hastings_."

Peter married the survivor.

"Well that's...intriguing."

Scrolling through Elizabeth's profile, Sherlock pores over her information and just...sits there, staring at the screen. He claps his hands together, positioning them underneath his chin.

_Elizabeth Hastings; age: twenty-six; marital status: married; occupation: consulting psychic under the command of head detective Peter Hastings__; __number of cases solved: thirty-seven (twenty-two: missing person, seven: homicide, eight: cold cases)._

Despite the number of cases she solved, Sherlock's face scrunches at the sight of "consulting psychic". Psychic. What sane person would ever confess to thinking that they are psychic? Oh, wait. She does have a documented history of psychological illness. But for the NYPD to believe such nonsense?

Sherlock scoffs, going limp on his seat.

Still, to have solved eight cold cases. That is quite impressive- for a fake psychic. Perhaps Peter is more generous with handing off credit for his finds? Perhaps he fears for his life with his mentally unstable wife?

Sherlock doesn't understand. Peter isn't an _un_attractive man, he has desirable qualities that a woman would want in a life partner: youthful genetics, chiseled features, blue eyes and feathery blonde hair, an athletic build- Sherlock is sure there are some other qualities. So why settle for a loon? It must be a physical/sexual thing, something that Sherlock isn't familiar with. Elizabeth is seven years younger than Peter.

There is an attachment to Elizabeth's profile dealing with medical information that the NYPD arranged and paid for when the case was open: _forty-six percent loss of hearing in left ear, thirty-five percent loss of hearing in right ear, severe head trauma, blood loss, __stab wound __through__ the sternum, cracks__ in __both carpals __and tarsals and ulna__, breaks __of__ the three, four and five ribs. __S__hows symptoms of __Acute stress reaction,__ Borderline intellectual functioning, __Catatonia, __and __Obsessive–compulsive personality disorder. __Hospitalized in New York State Psychiatric under __twenty-four hour__ surveillance._ _Discharged under the care of Peter Hastings._

_Well, explains why she thinks she's a psychic,_ Sherlock snorts.

He prints out Elizabeth's file and then opens up a separate window for use of the internet. He researches the cold cases that supposedly Elizabeth worked on and solved for the NYPD on both search engines. All eight of them were unsolved murders with little to no evidence on a suspect, yet on the statements Sherlock reads over, officers stated that they witnessed Elizabeth solve a case in a matter of minutes.

Her very first case was inadvertent. After Henry Geller turned himself in and she was discharged under Peter's care, she was to issue a statement against her kidnapper but couldn't speak on her own, Peter was to be her translator because he taught her sign language while she was hospitalized. While waiting, it just so happen to coincide with the day the widower went to the precinct for a follow up on her dead husband (she had been going every year on the anniversary of his death). Elizabeth didn't even meet the woman and "had a vision"—two days later a woman who turned out to be the husband's mistress was arrested and charged with is murder.

_Doesn't take a psychic to figure that out,_ Sherlock can't help but shrewdly deem.

As for what the internet found on Elizabeth, Sherlock automatically spots a similarity between the articles. _He's hiding her_, he observes. Journalists whom have tried to take a picture of the consultant psychic who has helped the NYPD solve numerous cases failed, every snapshot only has a snip-it of either her hair or back. The only one clearly visible in the candids is Peter who in turn is only hiding Elizabeth's face from the cameras.

Shame? Embarrassment? No, Sherlock knows that look, it's protectiveness.

"Curiouser and curiouser."

******[·]**

Sherlock doesn't believe in psychics or anything dealing with the supernatural for that matter, but he has to admit that Elizabeth's record is quite impressive. Thirty-seven cases solved in a span of six years. Okay, so it's not exactly extraordinary, but judging by how much Sherlock has seen Peter actually let Elizabeth out of the house- it is impressive.

Sherlock found out that the NYPD only brings in Elizabeth if the case doesn't have any more leads. Just like Sherlock. She must be worth it; he'll just voice his distaste with the fact she has to fake "supernatural" abilities in order to be respected and heard.

He is running out of options, and he wants to return to John as quickly as possible.

"Right on time," Sherlock utters from a distance. He has been watching Peter for the past two weeks, hoping to learn Elizabeth's daily routine, and most likely due to his wife's OCD Peter is frankly easy to follow, but Elizabeth's whereabouts still remain a problem.

5:30 AM: Morning run lasting approximately half-an-hour.

6:00 AM: Returns home.

7:00 AM: Leaves apartment, dressed in clothing that he should not be able to afford, he is always carrying a manila folder, and he gets into an overly shinny sports BMW parked out front.

7:18 AM: Arrives at 12th precinct.

12:00 PM: Leaves precinct for lunch.

12:18 PM: Returns home.

1:00 PM: Leaves apartment.

1:18 PM: Returns to precinct.

8:00 PM: Leaves for home.

And then repeat. On occasion during his work hours, Peter would leave the precinct for cases, but other than that, dull, predictable, and no Elizabeth.

Then why did Sherlock see her in the park? He thinks back, the memory vivid as if it were yesterday. Elizabeth loads in his mind from feet and up: Jimmy Choo heels, freshly shaved legs, Dior day dress, salon styled hair- not a single strand out of place, diamond tennis bracelet and earrings amounting up to no less than $3,000. The only thing that stands out of place in Sherlock's mind is the thin, cheap silver necklace around her neck; sentimental value, he concludes. Something that Peter may have brought her before his sudden wealth.

Anniversary.

She only comes out for special occasions or serious cases.

Peter jogs off, taking his usual route beginning from the left side of the building. Sherlock waits a few moments before crossing the street. There is a call box by the door, briefly hindering him from entering the building with ease. His scans the names underneath each button and begins pushing. He receives a few garbled 'hello's but then one immediate '_buzzz_' access from a lazy resident. The door pops open and Sherlock enters.

Apartment 315.

Sherlock debates whether his original intention of contacting Peter first is worth the wait when he can simply knock on the door now and meet Elizabeth face to face.

He raises his hand, knuckles hovering just over the peep-hole. But Sherlock isn't one to deviate from his own plan; he takes out the pen and notepad from the pocket of his jacket and quickly scribbles down his message. He tapes it over the peep-hole, blocking its view.

Peter will come, Sherlock knows it. He'll be too damn curious to resist. That's why Sherlock decided to work with him (that and Peter was the only one to bother with Sherlock and his methods when they needed him). He's a decent enough detective.

******[Fifteen Hours Later]**

******[Nine O'Clock, roughly]**

******[The Royal Diner]**

Sherlock sits patiently in a booth, nursing the most horrible tasting tea he has ever had the displeasure of drinking. He glances away from the smudged window of the cheap diner and down at his watch, 9:03 PM. He rolls his eyes and turns his gaze back to the lone figure pacing back and forth across the street.

Anxious and excited, Sherlock has been at the diner since seven to wait for Peter. And as for the detective himself, he has been standing outside of the diner for a little over fifteen minutes. Sherlock knows that there would be hesitance on Peter's part, but this is ridiculous. Sherlock isn't exactly a patient man.

Ultimately, Sherlock smoothly rises from the booth and raps his knuckles against the glass. He doesn't wait for Peter to look at him, because he knows that he is, and Sherlock waves him over and sits back down. He doesn't have time to waste.

Peter enters the diner and Sherlock eyes his coat with envy, it reminds him of the one he can no longer wear, the one that is hidden in the back of his closet along with his scarf. When Peter sheds off his coat, Sherlock watches bitterly as he neatly folds the expensive material in half along the center and drapes it on the back of his seat.

"Nice hair," Peter remarks, sliding into the booth.

"Nice watch. Did your wife buy that for you?" Sherlock retorts. "No, wait, it was just her money."

Peter sputters, "How did you...?" He stops and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose when Sherlock raises his briefly. Sherlock frowns when Peter's action reminds him of John.

"Hi, hello, what can I get you?"

Sherlock scoffs under his breath and rolls his eyes at the arrival of the desperate waitress. He watches with disgust as she suggestively leans in close to offer Peter the not so subtle view of her cleavage, the same she did with Sherlock when he first sat down, but while Sherlock cut off her advances immediately, Peter smiles kindly up at her.

"I'll just have some coffee, thank you."

"Are you sure?" The waitress smiles coyly. "We have some freshly baked apple and banana cream pie. I can give you a slice on the house as a sample."

"He's married, you harlot!" Sherlock balls his hands into fists. His patience is wearing thin. He has waited fifteen painstaking hours to meet with Peter, so excuse him if he is eager. "His wedding ring is clearly visible to you, yet you choose to ignore it and continue your advances. How desperate are you for human contact that you flirt with each male patron that comes across your tables? Hm? Is it because you fear to die alone and interest has dwindled since you peeked in high school? Perhaps–"

"Holmes, stop it!" Peter barks. "I am so sorry about that...Gina, is it? My friend isn't exactly a people person and it was like pulling teeth to have him meet me here. Here, why don't you get me a slice of that banana cream and keep the change."

Gina, the waitress, snatches the bundle of twenties from Peter, all while glaring at Sherlock with such intensity Sherlock doesn't have a single doubt in his mind that she is imagining him in a rather painful situation, and marches off with a huff.

"Just like old times, eh, Holmes?" Peter remarks, dryly.

"I haven't the faintest clue as to what you are referring to."

Peter's tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth. "What do you want, Holmes?"

"I believe I've already stated the cause of my being here."

"You want the help of a psychic? I thought you don't believe in such nonsense."

"I don't, and I am a bit disappointed that you have lowered your mental intellect and standards to promote such rubbish. Although, I do believe your wife has a set of skills that no average detective possess which can be used for my benefit. Shame she is masquerading it as being "magical". And I'm sure as you may have heard: 'Desperate times call for desperate measures.'"

"She isn't magical, she's psychic. And for that- you can't see her."

Sherlock smirks humorlessly. "Yes, I believe that you have to screen possible visitors before allowing them to be graced with her presence. Now, tell me, is it because you actually care for her well-being or are you more worried about what others think _of_ her?" Peter glowers at Sherlock's observation. Sherlock smiles. "Don't worry, Peter. I'm not one to judge a man in his choosing to marry a woman by being influenced by her parent's promise of wealth."

"You're wrong. I love her."

"I'm sure you do," Sherlock replies, dully.

"So did you invite me here just to over analyze me as usual?" Peter drawls. "Or are you going to man up and tell me why you need my help."

"I don't want your help, I want your wife's. However, since we've already established that I need to go through you to get to her, I'm sure you will recite to her my need, because I really do dislike repeating myself."

Peter's mouth stretches into a tight closed-lip smile. "Believe me, I remember."

Sherlock frowns. He procures a bag from beside his feet and places it on the table. Unzipping it he takes out the old copy of _The Sun_ and slides it carelessly across the table like the piece of garbage it is.

Peter raises a brow at Sherlock. He picks up the paper and reads out loud the headline, "Suicide of Fake Genius."

"I'd really appreciate it if you read quietly to yourself, thank you," Sherlock mutters.

"This says you're dead," Peter declares. He doesn't look away from the tabloid, his eyes avidly reading the article.

"It says a lot of things which are not true."

"Like how you were an armature detective who solved all of his own murders? The headline is a bit redundant seeing as how it takes a genius to pull off what you supposedly did," Peter comments.

Sherlock snorts in appreciation. "Thank you."

"Wasn't a compliment," he retorts.

Peter closes the paper and props his elbows up onto the table, interlocking his fingers. He gazes at Sherlock with a troubled and calculating expression on his face; Sherlock lets him judge, his own expression stoic.

"What makes you think that I won't arrest you right now?"

"You know me. I did not do this."

"No; you may be a jackass but you're no murderer," Peter quips. Sherlock huffs and grumbles under his breath.

"Here's your coffee and your pie." Gina sets Peter's order in front of him, making sure to lean in closer than necessary.

"Thank you. I really do apologize for my friend," Peter says, genuinely.

A wide, bashful smile spreads across Gina's face. "It's okay," she giggles and "playfully" bites her bottom lip and "seductively" runs her hand down Peter's arm. Sherlock tries—and fails—to refrain himself from rolling his eyes and scoffing. "Call me if you need anything." Gina waves flirtatiously and then departs.

"So will you be telling your wife about the waitress, Gina, or does she already know about the exchange since she's 'psychic'?"

"Holmes," Peter sighs in exasperation, massing his temples. "Please tell my any useful information you have for the case before I change my mind about helping you."

Sherlock falters. He has been trying to find at least a shred of evidence to prove his innocence, but Moriarty covered his tracks with the expertise he has revealed to Sherlock many a time.

"Holmes?"

Sherlock clenches his jaw, locking eyes with Peter from across the booth.

"I see." Peter nods.

Sliding out of the couch, Peter slips his arms into the sleeves of his coat. "How long have you been in town for? Do you have a place to stay?"

"My accommodations are set," Sherlock answers.

"Oh, and Holmes, before you begin working along side Elizabeth and I, just know that I do love her. This—" he sweeps his hand along the front of his body: across the Armani button-up and slacks and coat "—is all for show. If I don't fool her parents into thinking that I am using the money they are giving us for Elizabeth's care, they threaten to take her away from me. And you want to know what the worst part is? They're not the ones whom are going to take care of her if they want to stick her in a home. What kind of parents don't even want to be bothered by caring for their own daughter?"

Sherlock's mind, on its own, wanders back to the necklace he last saw Elizabeth wearing. Peter obviously bought the piece of jewelry with his own money rather than with his parent-in-laws'. He wanted to get her something with the money he earned himself; that is admirable. Does that count? Because Sherlock isn't exactly keen on the customs of relationships.

"Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock wonders.

"Don't put anything in her head. I know how you operate, Holmes," Peter replies, firmly. He holds up his index finger towards Sherlock. "One wrong move—and you're on your own."

Sherlock glares. "Your terms are agreeable."

"What's your address? I'll stop by tomorrow after lunch to take your statement."

"Why can't we settle that matter now?"

"Because I don't want to take this to Elizabeth quite yet until I know all the details, and I was lucky enough to come up with an excuse for this meeting. If a tiny thing goes wrong with her schedule and I'm at fault she begins to get curious that I may be hiding an important case from her."

"Isn't that exactly what you're doing?" Sherlock retorts.

"A sense of humor, I wonder where that came from." Peter raises a quizzical brow. "Have you been making friends across the pond, Holmes?"

Sherlock scowls. "My personal affairs are none of your concern."

"They are while I'm working on your case during my free time. Here's my card." Peter places a rectangular business card on the table in front of Sherlock. "You can call my office line and leave your address on the machine. And this," he withdraws more money from his wallet, "is for Gina. All of it."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes the money. "If you insist."

"We'll figure this out, I promise. You'll be home soon enough."

"Detective Hastings?" Sherlock calls out. Peter halts, turning to look at Sherlock from over his shoulder. "Happy belated anniversary."

Peter doesn't say anything in response, and Sherlock watches him leave the diner. His eyes veer down to the card and his fingers curl around the thick paper, enclosing it against his palm. Can Peter and Elizabeth really do what he can't? They do have the flexibility of being able to roam freely without having to look over their shoulder.

Sighing, Sherlock dumps the money Peter gave him onto the table for Gina. He begins to put on his jacket, grimacing at the cheap texture and mentally cursing at Peter and his beautiful coat.

"Aw, where did your friend go?" Gina whines and pouts.

Sherlock opens his mouth to snap at her, raising his hands into the air and balling them into fists, but then he closes his mouth shut, turns on the balls of his feet, and strides out of the diner.

**[·]**

When Sherlock arrives home, he is met with a surprising sight. There, sitting on the grime encrusted floor in front of his door with her legs sprawled out in front of her and not worrying about getting her designer clothes dirty, is Mrs. Elizabeth Hastings. He steps up to her and she lifts her chin to gaze up at him. He doesn't get the opportunity to ask how she figured out where he lives because she extends to him a piece of paper. He takes it.

___I need her help._

___The Royal Diner, 9th Street. 9:00 P.M._

—___SH_

She found his note.

"Huh." He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth and he smirks, folding the paper he tucks it into his pocket.

Elizabeth lifts herself off of the ground without dusting herself off and peers up at Sherlock. She meets him eye for eye because of the pair of almost scandalous stilettos heels she is wearing (Sherlock's memory unwillingly flashes to Irene's sinister grin), strands of her golden locks fall over her face but she doesn't bother to swipe them away, the wire of her hearing-aid is clearly visible and sticks out from behind her ear leading up to the side of her cranium (an expensive surgery that he is sure her parents paid for without complaint), her eyes have a glazed over haze and her pupils are dilated and her pink, plump lips are slightly parted (she must currently be on some form of medication for her illnesses—a combination in fact); her body is concealed behind a baggy knee-length navy peacoat and thick black stockings, but besides from the specks of dirt received from the floor she was just sitting on- she is remarkably clean which means that she does not have any pets. The only part of her that is visible are her hands, and Sherlock can see the calluses on the sides of both her middle fingers—a writer—signalling that she is ambidextrous.

_Impressive_.

Sherlock's analysis of Elizabeth is interrupted when he realizes that she is doing the exact same to him, well, in her own way. The palm of her hand ghosts over his forehead, down his face, neck, and then to the center of his chest. Sherlock shudders at the none-existent static like quality that emits from between their close contact, it is like she is sucking energy out of him. She sticks out her index finger and thumb, curling her remaining three fingers in towards her palm, forming a makeshift gun. She points directly at his heart.

"Bang," she whispers. Sherlock's heart sinks into his chest. "Bang," she repeats. His heart sinks further. "Bang," she finishes and lets her arm fall limply to her side. "Three strikes to the heart," she murmurs.

Sherlock licks his lips and gulps. He looks down at her but her gaze is unwavering from the spot on his chest. Shaking his head he puts on an expressionless face. Impossible. There is no such thing as a psychic. She's a fraud, a fake, a charlatan...

His only hope.


	3. Overprotective

**The Curιous Case oƒ Elizabeth Hastings **  
A Sherlock (TV) Fanfiction

_The Curious Case of Elizabeth Hastings_ _© F0REVERMORE  
Sherlock __© BBC & Sir Arthur Conan Doyle_

* * *

**Chapter Three:**  
_**Overprotective **_

Sherlock is curious as to how Elizabeth discovered where he lives. There are many possibilities, such as looking up his name on her husband's police database, but for that she would need to know what his false identification is, which as far as he knows- she does not. But there simply has to be a logical explanation.

He watches her from his place at the front door; he lets her in, but he remains rooted to his spot at the stoop, cautious. She strips off a handbag from across her chest and a cardboard booklet, discarding them carelessly onto the couch. Next comes her peacoat. She slowly undoes the large, round gold buttons from top to bottom. As the thick material slides off her shoulders and down her arms, Sherlock greedily takes the opportunity to examine her clothes underneath: snug fitting wool turtleneck sweater dress, reaching down to mid-thigh; her long legs are are clad in a pair of simple black stockings, runs in the back from when she was sprawled out on his building's unsanitary floor (but she doesn't seem to care); her wrists are donned with thin, simple gold bracelets and one delicate gold watch, her fingers are clear of any rings save for her diamond engagement ring—_round, two carats_—and her wedding ring—_24 karats, pure. __She doesn't like to show her wealth_, Sherlock observes.

Elizabeth, with an elegant stride, hips swaying, slowly walks the perimeter of Sherlock's small, one bedroom apartment. Her arm is extended, her fingertips brushing along the yellowing wallpaper. She stops when she comes to the spot where Sherlock had spray painted an exact replica of the smiley face back in 221B Baker Street in an attempt to fill the void in his chest of not being home; he would sometimes sit and stare at it, unmoving, his mind fooling himself into thinking that he is home, that everything is fine, and that John is sitting beside him in his usual seat reading the paper. Sherlock glares at the blonde-headed woman, she traces the round paint, fills in the mouth, and dots the eyes. That smiley face is his personal affair, she has no business trying to "see" into the cause of it. However, if she sees anything, she doesn't voice it; she leaves the smiley face alone and continues her walk-through.

Her next stop is his desk. She briefly flips through a stack of the papers littered across the surface before she moves over and squats down to the floor, picking up some of the papers Sherlock had since long ago thrown to the floor in rage; of what little information he found on James Moriarty. When she doesn't make any motions to leave that position any time soon, Sherlock sheds his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack before further venturing into his own apartment.

He reaches for her coat on the couch to hang it up as well, but he falters when he notices the cardboard booklet underneath it.

_Hello, my name is Elizabeth,_ he reads underneath a polarized size photo of Elizabeth. His brow furrows.

Sherlock gazes at the blonde from over his shoulder, she is no longer by his desk and is now just entering his bedroom, leaving the door wide open for her to still be visible.

Taking this opportunity of solitude, Sherlock drapes Elizabeth's coat on the back of his couch and picks up the cardboard booklet. He turns a page. _If you find me alone, please call my husband, Peter_. Listed below a picture of Peter are three different numbers: his cell-phone, house phone, and personal line at the 12th precinct.

Now Sherlock knows from his examination that Elizabeth is perfectly capable of caring for herself to a certain extent, but this cardboard booklet is a whole different matter of Peter's unnecessary need to protect his wife. What he may not know is that this action is potentially harming her, making it seem to others that she needs to be in constant attention and care. Sherlock feels its affect, his skepticism rising. He cannot afford to put his entire life on a lost cause if it does turn out to be that Elizabeth is mentally unstable, but unfortunately he doesn't really have a choice at the moment. He's willing to do almost anything to get his old life back, to get home to John.

Sherlock dials in Peter's cell-phone number from the booklet on his land-line. It doesn't even ring twice before Peter answers in hard and snappy tone, "Head Detective Hastings." Sherlock can also detect an undertone of distress. He just realized that his wife isn't home.

"I believe I have something that belongs to you," Sherlock declares.

"Holmes?" Peter replies quizzically. "How did you get this number?"

"From your wife's little booklet," Sherlock answers. "Really, Detective Hastings, is this certainly necessary?" He asks, inspecting the palm sized booklet in his hands; there are three pages: the first introduces Elizabeth, the second has the contact information for Peter, and the third has instructions that specifically explain to the finder, if they cannot get a hold of Peter, to hail a cab for Elizabeth and to tell the cabbie the address listed below which would take her to the 12th precinct.

Peter curses off line. "Where are you?" he demands.

Sherlock responds with his address.

"I'll be there in twenty. Don't do anything until I get there, Holmes. I mean it," Peter warns before ending the call.

Sherlock cocks a brow down at his phone, eyes veering up in the direction of his bedroom where Elizabeth is browsing. He hooks the phone back on the wall and goes to check up on his surprise guest. He stands at his bedroom's doorway, halting at the sight before him. Elizabeth is sitting on the edge of his bed, his closet doors are wide open, and draped along her lap is his coat- in her hands is his scarf. Two items of clothing that he made sure to hide at the very back of his closet in a black garment bag.

Angry, Sherlock is about to march right up to Elizabeth and stanch his personal property away from her possession, but he stops. She is crying. Her gaze is unfocused, staring at the nothingness ahead of her. Lone tears every so often slide down her cheeks, her lips are parted and lightly trembling as she mumbles quietly to herself; her grip on his scarf is tight, her knuckles are pure white and drained of blood.

Sherlock cautiously steps closer.

"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims... Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims..." she whispers, repetitive.

Sherlock's mouth goes dry.

"I'm sorry, John."

He blinks, meeting the unfocused gaze of Elizabeth. "Pardon?"

"Brothers; not by blood, but by bond," she replies, cryptically. It seems everything that comes out of her mouth has some double meaning behind it. "No." Her brow furrows, mouth forming a frown. "Genuine care. Affection. Want. Need. You love—" her head perks "—Peter."

There are three loud bangs at the front door. "Holmes, open up," comes Peter's muffled command.

Sherlock grits his teeth. What perfect timing! Didn't he say he would be here in twenty? Did he mean seconds? Growling, Sherlock swiftly stomps over to the front door and yanks the door open. Peter pushes past him, letting himself in.

"Where is she?"

"Giving me some answers," Sherlock replies, curtly.

"I told you not to do anything with her until I arrived!" Peter barks.

"I did not commence any form of communication. She's the one doing all of the talking."

Peter blinks. "Wait, she's _talking_?"

"Mumbling actually," Sherlock corrects.

"But she's speaking?" Peter inquires.

Sherlock questions, perplexed, "Is she not suppose to?"

"Lizzie," Peter murmurs under his breath with worry, rushing straight into Sherlock's bedroom. The only place where his wife could be seeing as how she is not in the living area. Sherlock follows.

"Lizzie, Lizzie, shh, it's okay," Peter speaks softly, and with utmost care he wipes Elizabeth's face clean of her tears. "What is this?" His tone changes from warm and loving, to hard and irate. He takes the scarf and coat from Elizabeth and looks them over with keen eyes. "Is this blood? Did you give this to her?" he directs to Sherlock, angry.

"She found them. On her own."

"They're trigger objects, Holmes," Peter growls, tossing the items of clothing onto the bed behind Elizabeth. "What was she saying when she was holding them?"

Sherlock clenches his jaw, not really wanting to divulge that information to the head detective.

Peter glares. "Exactly why I didn't want you to do anything until I got here," he scoffs. "She doesn't repeat any of her insights." Shaking his head, he adds, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I'm taking her home."

"No," Sherlock replies immediately.

"Pardon me?" Peter challenges.

"I need her," Sherlock hates to admit.

"I realize that. But it's late and she needs to rest. We'll continue this tomorrow."

"You won't bring her," Sherlock accuses, knowingly. Peter sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "I. Need. Her," Sherlock repeats, firmly.

Peter holds strong eye contact with Sherlock, mulling.

"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims," Sherlock expresses, articulate. "That's what she said."

"Tomorrow morning, 7:30. Be home," Peter responds, succinct.

Peter turns back to Elizabeth, trying to capture her attention: brushing her hair back from her face, gently rubbing her shoulders, cupping her cheeks. Sherlock can't stomach the blatant show of affection and decides to leave the couple in peace, he goes into the living room and heavily plops down onto the couch.

Hours have passed and both Peter and Elizabeth have long since been gone. Sherlock hasn't budged an inch, set in his mind place, calculating. He taps the tips of his index fingers together rhythmically, in sync with the ticking of the clock, his thumbs resting underneath his chin and his remaining six fingers interlocking.

"_Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims." _

"_I'm sorry, John."_

"_Brothers; not by blood, but by bond... No... Genuine care. __Affection. __Want. Need. __You love...__"_ Sherlock jaw clenches and he scoffs.

What does she know? She can't possibly think that he actually...? And with John? A sinking sensation twists deep within Sherlock's abdomen. John. The feeling is foreign and unwanted: longing, absence, yearning. Exhaling, Sherlock rises from the couch and he retires to his bedroom. Along the way, he balls his hands into fists, hands trembling.

"DAMN IT!" he curses.

He has grown soft. John has made him soft. For years he has denied it; John is simply a companion, a friend he would say. But a life without John is a life not worth living. Dull.

Throwing himself onto his bed, bouncing, the mattress creaks under his weight and an object pokes uncomfortably at his front. Without looking, Sherlock wedges his hand underneath him, fingers wiggling till they come in contact with the object. He tugs at the rough material, pulling it over with him as he rolls over onto his back. He drapes the fabric over his chest; his coat.

Sherlock's thoughts drift to his scarf, but he knows that he will not find it because although he was off in his mind place while Elizabeth and Peter were leaving, he distinctly remembers Elizabeth trying to hide the piece of cloth from her husband's view, tucking it into the front of her sweater and making her breast seem larger and lumpy.

Could Sherlock have stopped her? Yes, but he didn't want to. Elizabeth saw something while holding his scarf. Improbable, surely, but the more Elizabeth "sees" the faster Sherlock can get his life back.

******[·]**

Sherlock is seated in a ratty, old armchair with a direct view of his front door. The light olivine scratchy fabric is fading and patchy, odd strands are coming undone and poking his backside, but it was cheap and it is comfortable (he just wouldn't recommend anyone sit on it while in clothing that reveals exposed skin. Rash won't disappear for days).

Sherlock's legs are crossed and his knee bounces impatiently. His elbows are propped up on the armrests, his palms are pressed together firmly, and his chin rests on the tips of his fingers.

His eyes flicker to the time on his watch: 7:29 AM. Any second now. He refocuses his gaze back to his door, waiting for the knock.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Finally, there is a knock on the door: distinct and solid; Peter most likely, Elizabeth doesn't seem like the sort to knock (she's too lost in her head). Sherlock springs to his feet and rushes to answer the door.

"It's about time," he utters.

"Please," Peter scoffs, "we're right on time."

"No doubt to your wife's OCD I'm sure," Sherlock quips. "Please, do come in."

Peter doesn't budge, his eyes narrow. His arm extends to stop Elizabeth from entering the apartment. "How did you know that Lizzie has OCD?" he demands.

"Do you actually think I would ask for help from someone I don't know completely about?" Sherlock replies, blatantly.

Peter rolls his eyes but nonetheless steps aside and lets Elizabeth come into view. Sherlock is elated to see her but he doesn't dare show it. What did she see? Something new and beneficial, hopefully. She enters the apartment first, carelessly shedding her coat and purse and tossing them onto the couch.

There is something different about her, Sherlock notices. She doesn't have her hearing-aid. The metal and wire plate linking to both eardrums should be magnetically connected to the side of her cranium where a small metal plate was embedded from her hearing surgery, all linking to the device wrapped around her left ear—is missing. She's not wearing it; her left ear is completely bare.

Peter is close behind Elizabeth, he picks up her discarded coat, leaving behind the purse, and hangs it on the coat rack before he hangs his own.

Sherlock finds the action only mildly interesting. Peter knows how to take care of her—of someone in her condition. That takes time and determination, someone willing to try. Like how John is (was?) the only one willing to put up with him for so long.

Pushing all thoughts of John out of his thoughts (at least for now), Sherlock closes the door and returns to his armchair.

"Why should I disclose to you what information I have if she isn't going to bother to listen?" Sherlock directs to Peter. "Where is her listening device?"

"The information isn't for Lizzie, it's for me," Peter explains. "Her visions are...er...erratic. She tells me what she sees- I piece them together with real evidence to be used for court. And as for her hearing-aid, I'm surprised she lasted a whole night without taking it off; bothers her."

Sherlock nods once. "Hm," he hums in contemplation.

Peter guides Elizabeth to sit down on the couch, closest to Sherlock while he takes the place next to her. He opens Elizabeth's purse and frowns.

"What is this doing in here?" he demands, removing the familiar navy blue scarf from her bag. At the sight of the scarf, Elizabeth smiles sheepishly.

Peter scowls and his hands and fingers move swiftly and precisely. Elizabeth replies with hand gestures of her own. Peter answers her movements, his scowl further deepening (he is expressing irritation, Sherlock observes). Elizabeth sighs, rolls her eyes and snatches the scarf from Peter.

Sherlock is wary and goes rigid in his seat when Elizabeth scoots over to the edge of her seat, lifting herself enough so that she is hunched over and hovers over him. She wraps the scarf around his neck, expertly looping it and then patting the material when she is done. She smiles at him, her hands and fingers dancing in front of his face. She sits back down, crossing her legs.

Soft; warm and soft. That is what comes to Sherlock's mind when he rests his chin against his chest. He picks up the end and runs the pad of his fingers against the soft fabric. The deep burgundy stains that was his blood should be clinging to the material is gone, wiped clean. His scarf is as it should be.

"She cleaned it. She _stole_ it and she cleaned it," Peter says, tone laced with disapprovement. "Now she believes it to be in its rightful place."

"Hn," Sherlock grunts. Seems like he's going to need to brush up on American Sign Language. He never had the need to learn the hand language before (he hasn't been to the states in years), but apparently it is Elizabeth's main form of communication. Shouldn't be too difficult; he has conquered many languages in a matter of days.

Peter further ventures into Elizabeth's bag until he hands her a thick puzzle book and a pencil, placing them on her lap. He opens to the first page for her and drops the pencil in between the pages; she quickly delves into puzzles, snatching the writing object in the crack of the bind.

"There, that should keep her busy for awhile," Peter announces. He places Elizabeth's bag off to the side after removing a small notepad and a pen and then crosses his legs. He clicks the pen, facing Sherlock with a professional gaze: stern and attentive. "Start from the beginning."

Sherlock plays with the loose strings of his scarf. Start from the beginning; explain Jim Moriarty and his obsession with him because he was simply bored with "ordinary" victims; all because of John's blasted blog and its tales of his cases; made him seem unordinary and utterly fascinating and brilliant. True, but still.

"I was a distraction," he begins. "Someone who challenged him; took his mind off of the terribly mundane."

"Who?"

"James Moriarty. Don't bother to look him up, you won't find anything. I tried. He erased his life from existence." Sherlock clenches his jaw. "He knew that he was going to die on that rooftop with me, and he prepared to take all of his secrets to the grave with him." He smirks. "But I won. I showed him that I am better. He underestimated me."

"Yet, here you are- hiding," Peter remarks. "You may be alive, but you're not even a fragment of the man you once were."

Sherlock glares, though he knows that Peter speaks the truth. "That's why you're here," he retorts. "Why I need her, and she's not even listening." He scoffs, staring intently at Elizabeth as her hand flies across the paper of her puzzle book with a glare meant to melt steel, but alas she remains unfazed, unknowing to his frustration. "My only chance at regaining what is mine and she isn't remotely interested."

"Oh, she's interested all right. Didn't sleep a wink last night," Peter replies. "She...she can't help it, Holmes. She's always..._on_; it doesn't stop. All she has are-"

"-Distractions," Sherlock concludes. He knows exactly what must be going on in Elizabeth's head. The ability to never stop observing, to never stop thinking, the distractions only offering a tiny bit of comfort from the chaos of the brain.

Peter nods, grimly. "She gets worse when she's on a case. She doesn't sleep, she doesn't eat, she just...sits there, lost in her own world where I can't protect her. It may not look like it, Holmes, but she is working on your case."

"Has she found anything new?" Sherlock questions.

"She wants to go where it all happened," Peter answers. "Thinks she'll be able to track the gunmen who threatened the lives of your friends. But there are still a few things that I need to do before I even _think_ about taking her overseas. I don't know if she'll be able to handle the transition."

"Are you sure that isn't just your fears speaking, detective?"

Peter scowls. "You don't know her like I do, Holmes. She can't handle crowds; she gets overwhelmed to the point of having a near panic attack."

Sherlock frowns at the speed bump in his case. He has noticed that Elizabeth prefers the company of less than more. Back when he first saw her at Central Park, she stayed towards the end of the gathering crowd of the morbidly curious; her hands were twitching at her sides, fingers wringing her thumbs and tapping the sides of her legs, leaning away from close contact. A sign of discomfort.

"And London is a big city," Sherlock comments.

"A very big city," Peter agrees. "Regardless of her wary feelings towards large crowds, she still wants to help. Stubborn, she is; could never stay away from solving the impossible."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches, almost forming a smile.

"You're not giving me much to work off of, Holmes."

"Good thing I didn't ask for your help then."

Peter sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You never did cooperate well. Always have to have the last word still, eh?"

This time Sherlock does produce a false smile, not at all amused.

"You said you looked up this, James Moriarty, guy. Do you mind if I see what you do have?"

Sherlock uncaringly waves off over his shoulder, in the direction of his desk. When Peter huffs in irritation and heaves himself off of the couch, Sherlock keeps his gaze steady on Elizabeth. She has yet to look up from her puzzle book, not once. And upon further inspection, he realizes that she isn't solving the puzzles at all—she is drawing an explicitly detailed picture of the roof of St. Bart's but with a few added details and a few missing blotches of the structure. Heat flows through Sherlock's veins, burning straight through to his chest as he sees the distinctive sketches of two figures; he is clearly visible, standing near the edge of the roof, clad in his coat and scarf and natural dark curls, and he is peering down at the street below him. Behind him is a dark, menacing shadow figure shrouded in darkness. Elizabeth harshly colors in what Sherlock is sure is Moriarty, her knuckles white.

Her eyes veer up to gaze directly into his, her head remains tilted towards her work of art. Sherlock hands tighten into fists when he sees that her pupils are dilated to an unhealthy scale. Her blue irises are hardly visible. Slowly, the black abyss shrink when, from behind Sherlock, Peter bellows:

"Holmes, what the hell is this?"

Sherlock doesn't break his gaze from Elizabeth, but she does. She looks up towards her husband. Sherlock tries to come up with a logical explanation for the large diameter of her pupils (medication? unmedicated drugs?), but it seems that when it comes to Elizabeth so far, logic is far out of the window.

_Interesting_. Perhaps his boredom can be soothed yet by the enigma that is Elizabeth Hastings. It is going to be awhile before he is off on cases again with John by his side. Might as well fill in the gap.

"What are you yammering on about now, detective?" Sherlock inquires, monotone.

"This," Peter seethes, stomping over to Sherlock and shoving the printed paper in front of him, obstructing his view of Elizabeth. "What is this?"

"A complete psychological profile of your wife," Sherlock replies, simply.

"Yes, I realized that," Peter snaps. "What I want to know is how you got all of this information."

"I thought I told you I did a background check," Sherlock mutters with a roll of his eyes. "Or has Alzheimers settled in early and drastically escalated within the last twenty minutes?"

"These documents have the NYPD logo on the top. You should not have this kind of intimate information. I can arrest you for this!"

"Yes, but you won't."

Peter leans in close, hovering over Sherlock. "How did you get into the database?"

"I used your pass code," Sherlock answers, dully. "Wasn't that difficult to crack."

Peter scowls, fingers crinkling the paper as he squeezes his hands shut. "Damn it, Holmes!" he curses. "You can't just go and hack into the NYPD database whenever you so damn please; there are consequences! What if you got caught? What if my superiors found out that you used my log in info?"

Sherlock remains unfazed by the rough reprimanding from the head detective of the NYPD.

"How much do you know?"

Sherlock's attention is captured. He turns his head and raises a brow up toward the detective. "Pardon?"

"How much do you know? About Lizzie."

Sherlock's brain floods with information on the blonde woman sitting across from him. "Elizabeth Hastings, born: Elizabeth Lorraine Morgan. She comes from a very prominent family in upstate New York, the Morgans, known for their generous donations to any political party that better suit their tastes; if you want a Mayer elected- even a new President in office- you go to the Morgans. At the age of eighteen, Elizabeth left the comfort of her parent's home to try her hand at modeling in the fashion industry, "I dream of walking the runway," she once stated in an interview for the article _Fresh Faces We Would Like to See More Of_. She had a very promising start due to her family's reputation. Thousands, possibly millions, mourned her loss within the first twenty-four hours of her disappearance. Her parents offered a $50,000 reward for any leads to the whereabouts of their daughter. And when she emerged from captivity seven days after her kidnapping, she showed several signs of multiple psychosis which unfortunately rendered any statement she would have made if she could speak possibly deranged and unusable. She was put under twenty-four-seven watch under the command of the New York Police Department in case her kidnapper would return. However, a man named Henry Geller turned himself in soon after and confessed to the murders; he was sentenced to death thanks to the fact of him kidnapping and torturing the wrong woman—a Morgan no less! Although he confessed and brought up information only the true kidnapper and murderer would know, you think that he did not do it. And why is that, detective Hastings? Did Elizabeth tell you something vital that could reopen the very case that ruined her mind?"

Peter doesn't respond right away, he searches for something within Sherlock's expression. "Is that all?" he asks.

"Despite having their daughter back in one piece and eventually discharged and able to return back to a relatively normal life, Mr and Mrs Morgan thought of her a weakness, a loophole in all of their hard work." Sherlock catches the way Peter tenses and the way Elizabeth shrinks into the couch. "Which is why they let her marry a commoner, a man—possibly the only man—who could ever be interested in their only child romantically; because either way, the Morgan name has to live on and they are much too old to birth another sire or heiress. Mrs Morgan lost the ability to carry a child by the time she reached forty-two. Quite young. Elizabeth was their miracle child."

"Now is that everything?" Peter questions, his are lips pressed together to form a thin line and his jaw is clenched.

"Simple details, noticeable habits." Sherlock waves a hand dismissively, but then he perks in his seat, his attention peaked. "Why? Is there more?"

"Not that _you_ need to know."

"So there is more."

"Don't go looking where you don't belong. Ignore the part of your brain that makes you think you need to know everything."

Sherlock slumps in his seat.

"Come on, Lizzie," Peter directs to his wife, signaling with his hands.

Sherlock sits up, completely erect. "You're leaving?"

"I have everything even remotely useful," Peter responds. He slides his arms through the sleeves of his coat and extends Elizabeth's coat, waiting to assist her on putting it on.

Sherlock sits, rigid. He watches with a stoic expression as Elizabeth and Peter leave without saying good-bye, not even a wave. A year he has been alone, hiding, searching. Sherlock hates to admit this but, well, the company was nice (even if Peter yelled at him half the time and Elizabeth didn't say a word).

Throwing himself back onto the plush backrest of the armchair, Sherlock huffs. He sits quietly for a few moments, the silence slowly eating away at him. Bored. Painstakingly bored. He undoes his scarf with sharp and jerky movements, its earlier effect of soothing him now gone.

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock spies the open book of Elizabeth's latest distraction. She is the forgetful type. Sherlock stands and lifts the book, inspecting the extremely detailed drawing and automatically filling in its blanks that Elizabeth has left out. She's never been to St. Bart's- let alone London. So how does she know what the view is like on its roof?

_She could have looked it up,_ Sherlock's brain tries to rationalize.

But how does that explain the two figures on the rooftop? One being him, and the other a black mass that has the same height and build of none other than James Moriarty.

Down underneath the drawing of Sherlock, Sherlock reads the slanted and neat cursive handwriting of the artist. _I want this __puzzle __book back. __Peter leaves for work a__s soon as he drops me off at home__. __Door is unlocked._ He looks over to his closed front door, smirking. Clever woman, she left it on purpose. And she didn't leave an address which means that she is aware that he knows where she lives. But how does she know that Sherlock will actually come? He could just ignore the invite and remain home.

Sherlock debates.

Tearing out the page containing the drawing, Sherlock tosses it onto his armchair to keep and then snaps the book shut. He heads for the front door, grabbing his jacket on the way out.

**[Peter]**

His grip on the steering wheel is tight, his jaw is clenched. Licking his lips he side glances at his wife who is resting her head on the glass, staring mindlessly at the passing buildings. Her peaceful, slack expression eases the tension in his shoulders. He breathes in deeply and slowly exhales. Sherlock has that affect on him. On everyone really. Coiling them up because if they don't put up their guard, he would surely find their weaknesses and severely press them, and smugly may he add.

Reaching out, Peter brushes the back of his fingers along Elizabeth's arm. She directs her gaze over to him.

"I need you to focus on me, okay? Focus." he tells her slowly and over annunciations his words. "I need to pay attention to the road."

She nods and shifts her body so that she is facing him with the best of her ability with the seat-belt firmly strapped across her chest. Elizabeth can read lips if she focuses enough on the person speaking, but only if Peter tells her to because if he doesn't she would let her mind wander off, getting consumed by what sensations the Earth has to tell her. At least, that is how she described her ability to him once when he asked what it is like.

He glances at her one more time to make sure that he is the center of her attention. He turns his gaze back to the road.

"I don't want you alone with Sherlock Holmes, okay. If he comes to the apartment and for whatever reason I am not there, you call me _immediately_." He glances at her again. "Got it?"

Her brow is furrowed and her mouth forms a frown, her front two teeth graze along her bottom lip. _'Why?'_ she asks.

A simple question with a difficult answer. How can Peter explain the reason for not wanting Elizabeth anywhere near Sherlock? _"Because he can see everyone's flaws and you're riddled with them." "Because I don't want him to hurt your feelings; anyone else is fine, I could give two fucks, but not you. You're fragile enough." "__He is a__n arrogant__ bastard __who thinks he knows it all and can't keep his mouth shut.__"_ A million answers that would surely piss her off run through his mind.

"Just don't," he decides to say. "Trust me on this, okay? It's for the best."

Elizabeth eyes him skeptically. She doesn't make any indication that she will do as he asks of her. She shifts so that she is staring out of the window again.

Great, that is just what he needs on top of his already staggering case load and this whole bringing Sherlock back from the dead thing—his wife and sometimes work partner mad at him.

How the hell is he going to explain to the chief that he needs to take a few weeks off to solve another case that isn't even in his jurisdiction?

******[·]**

After making sure Elizabeth is safely in the apartment, Peter drives to the 12th precinct and trudges to his desk. He sheds his coat with a loud sigh and drapes it on the back of his swivel chair.

"Good-morning, Peter."

Peter plops down on his chair, rubbing his face. "Good-morning, Lindsey," he greets a fellow detective, his partner, junior detective Lindsey Montgomery.

Lindsey props herself on top of his desk, placing a palm at the center to hold up her weight. "Tough morning?" she asks, tone laced with sympathy. A completely inappropriate position, but everyone at the precinct are close like family. They watch each others backs on the streets, take care of one another. And he and Lindsey had to form a strong bond since they are partners, he is training her to become a full detective.

He looks up at her: her chestnut brown hair is pulled back in a loose bun, her glasses (which she doesn't even need) are sliding down the bridge of her nose and are in an unflattering fashion magnifying her otherwise pretty russet brown eyes, and she is dressed in a plain gray pantsuit, but her deep purple button up has a few too many buttons undone; at a certain angle Peter can see the edges of her black lace bra.

"Like you wouldn't believe." Peter chuckles, leaning back in his seat so that he isn't staring down at his partner's cleavage. "But it's nothing I can't handle."

"The Mrs?" she questions lightly, raising a delicate brow.

Peter goes on the defense, frowning. "Why would you think it has anything to do with my wife?"

She blinks, leaning away from him, obviously taken aback by his guarded tone. "It's just- I..." she stammers. "You have a strict time limit to everything, a schedule. It must be frustrating."

"Well, it isn't."

"I'm sorry," she apologizes. "It isn't my place to say anything." She smiles coyly, sliding off of his desk. "How about we forget I said anything and go get some coffee?"

"Black, two sugars. Thank you," Peter orders, succinct. He opens his top right drawer and pulls out a few folders of paperwork he needs to get done before he can talk with the chief. He looks up at Lindsey who has yet to go and fetch his much needed beverage. "Coffee?"

"Oh, right. Okay," she replies when Peter makes it known that he is not going to be going with her this time, not after she took a jab at his wife.

Peter knows that he is being a little rude, but today did not start at a good point; he'll apologize to Lindsey later. He's sure that she will understand.

Opening the first folder, he sighs and rubs at his hair and then he gets to work.

* * *

**(A/N) Author's Note:** Sorry that this took so long to post. I had three versions of chapter three and I believe (hope) that this is the best one. I don't normally post author's notes unless they are really important, so please **read** it.

Now, I need to ask of a favor from you, my readers. Please. I do know where this story is going, I have it all planed out of how Elizabeth will help in clearing Sherlock's name, but I kind of want them to interact more before I send Lizzie and Peter off to London to met John, Mrs Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, and the rest. Do you guys have any ideas/perforations you would like to see happen between Elizabeth and Sherlock? Now, it can't be anything too drastic because this isn't your run-of-the-mill romance story, Sherlock and Elizabeth are not going to fall in love in five chapters, but they will end up together eventually, in the end (sort of). For one: she is happily married. Two: As you have read from the summery, this has some Johnlock in it; I believe that since Sherlock has so little experience when it comes to love that he is blatantly ignoring his possible romantic feelings towards John because he doesn't know what love is nor what it feels like (and he hates the Elizabeth can see it and is surfacing those said feelings). And three: it's just not realistic; Sherlock doesn't turn into mush at the sight of an OC. I apologize if that seems harsh.

Please offer some ideas. Anything. And if I choose your idea I will, of course, give you credit at the top of the page for all the eyes to see :)


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